Albright-Knox Visit

I had a very enjoyable time at the Albright-Knox. While I go there fairly regularly, too often I don't take the time to truly look and figure out how I feel about the artwork I see there, so this was a good experience.

Milton Avery, Bucolic Landscape, 1945, Oil, 32"x48"

Avery's Bucolic Landscape made an impact on me because it reminded me so much of the painting Christina's World. I learned recently that that painting is not about a girl lounging in a meadow looking dreamily up at her home, but actually about a crippled girl who has to crawl wherever she goes. Both feature a figure in the lower left corner looking away from the viewer, off into the distance. The cow, like the girl, is crippled, for it is trapped on the farmland, its fate decided by the farmer. By painting the cow as actively looking, and not just grazing or something like that, the cow seems to be able to have emotions, and rather melancholy ones at that.

Yves Tanguy, Indefinite Divisibility, 1942, Oil, 40"x35"

This painting made an impression on me because it simply feels so eerie. There is a definite disquiet in the strange landscape, that feels like it is solid land dissolving into liquid and mist. The alien-looking contraptions appear like they are made up of driftwood that washed up onto the shore, and were put together by someone long ago. Whereas Dali's The Transparent Simulcrum of the Feigned Image that hangs right next to it at least feels like it is from this world, Indefinite Divisibility feels like a landscape from another planet.

Joan Miro, Carnival of Harlequin, 1924-25, Oil, 26"x36.5"

Miro's Carnival of Harlequin is almost as unsettling, but that is not the only reason why it makes an impression on me. Whenever I see it, I'm reminded of a mural that was inspired by Miro that was in a cafe that I would often go in as a little kid. The strange line-work of the mural fascinated me then, and now that feeling is amplified now, seeing the real thing. There is revelry in the painting, but also an unease. The carnival is dark, everything is twisted, and at any moment one gets the impression that they might cease to play, and instead attack. There are many individual elements crowding the painting, and one can almost hear their buzzing. Hopefully, they don't soon decide to swarm.

Claude Monet, Tow-Path of Argenteuil, 1875, Oil, 23 5/8"x39 3/8"

I feel a connection with this Monet because the scene it represents reminds me a lot of a particular place I walked through in Sweden. Monet paints this path by the water as fairly solitary-looking--there are few figures around, and the one closest to the viewer is alone. The land looks rather snowy, which gives the impression of sound being dampened. Monet's brushwork makes the painting look rather "fuzzy," and therefore dreamlike or like a memory. The landscape feels quiet and brisk, but also comforting. When I was walking in Sweden, I felt like I was making some sort of connection with the landscape. It feels like the figure, who is looking out to the water, is feeling similarly.

Frida Kahlo, Self-Portrait with Monkey, 1938, oil, 16"x12"

I feel a connection with Kahlo's Self-Portrait with Monkey because Kahlo is a master at empathy. In The Little Deer, Kahlo transforms herself and her pain (from a car accident) into the form of an injured deer, for she is able to empathize with the pain of hunted deer. In this painting, her animal of choice is a monkey. Both stare coolly back at the viewer, but she lets us into her world, her reality. She paints herself honestly, and for that reason the viewer sees her as a person, not simply a model in a painting to gaze at--she gazes back, and not just passively. I feel a connection with her because she's clearly looking back at me, presenting her world, and her pain.

Jaye Rhee, Tear, 2002, 4-Channel Video Installation with Sound, 4 minutes, 7 seconds

Jaye Rhee's Tear was about the struggles that all of us go through, so it would be hard not to feel some sort of connection with her. This was a video installation that was a part of the Albright-Knox's Videosphere exhibition, and was one of the less opaque works. By using her body to tear in half a long, stretched-out piece of fabric, Rhee is demonstrating how simply walking across a room can feel overbearing. The fabric represents the obstacles each of us feels over simple tasks. The only sound in the room is of ripping fabric, which could represent how self-conscious a person feels when struggling through something they're uncomfortable with. One example could be walking across the room in a party--I would be the type of person to stay against the wall and in corners, so strolling out in front of everybody would be a difficult and self-conscious act for me. The fabric, which stretches across four screens, could also represent a bigger picture: it could represent one's entire lifetime, and the act of ripping it is the act of experiencing life.

John F. Simon, Jr., Endless Victory, 2005, Software, Acrylic Plastic, 28"x28"x3"

Endless Victory's design at a different stage

The above are two pictures of Endless Victory at two different stages. The work has LCD screens that are constantly changing, forming different patterns of geometric shapes. It was inspired by Piet Mondrian's Victory Boogie Woogie, which was left unfinished at the time of his death. I would like to know more about Mondrian's work, and learn how exactly Simon was inspired by it. While some connections between the artworks are obvious, such  as the diamond shape, color, and geometric forms, I'd like to know what made Simon want to translate it into a moving image. Is it called Endless Victory  because Mondrian never got to complete his piece, so it can never be finished? Does the work try to capture the same feeling of  "Boogie Woogie" jazz that Mondrian originally tried to capture?

Edward Jean Steichen, Nocturne-Orangerie Staircase, 1910, Gum Bichromate Print, 6 5/16"x8 1/4"

A better image found online

Steichen's photograph is very dark, and therefore very mysterious. The viewer naturally wants to know more about the context of the photograph. What adds to its mystique is the fact that when one tries to take a photo of it, one's own reflection is bounced back, and most of the image is lost--it almost feels like a reflective shield. It is uncapturable, and therefore unfathomable, to a degree. I'd like to know the historical context for the work, and why that made him choose to make the image so dark, other than the building at the center. Is the building a beacon of light and hope in an otherwise dark world? Or does the building represent a force of evil?

Isaac Julien, Western Union: Small Boats, 2007, 35 mm color film on 3 screens, 31 minutes, 2 seconds

Lastly, Julien's Western Union: Small Boats was one of the most captivating works of art I saw during my visit. The Videosphere work was projected onto three large screen in the largest room on the second floor, already giving it might and a sense of ominousness. I didn't start watching the video at the beginning, but I continued to watch until I had seen the entire thing. I would like to know where the actual beginning of the work is, for it was unclear. Or, perhaps it doesn't matter. The video was quite abstract. There was a story being told, but it was not fully explained. People were on boats, some got shipwrecked, some appear to have drowned, others were dragged into a very ornate looking palace. An African woman rather passively watched on. While I think the piece will always be to a degree unexplainable, I would like to see the other two videos that make up the trilogy that this video was a part of, to better understand the work as a whole. Having only seen the second third, I do not know the beginning of the work, nor its ending. The movie was filmed beautifully, the music was wonderful, and the fates of the people were fascinating--I would love to see all three parts, to complete the picture.